


Something Human

by Purpleneutrino (mackerelmademedoit)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Falling In Love, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Separation Anxiety, Sharing a Bed, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 18:33:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19279015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackerelmademedoit/pseuds/Purpleneutrino
Summary: “Evil does not sleep. And even if it did, it most certainly wouldn’t have nightmares.”---Crowley can’t sleep. That is, not without having visions of roaring inferno. Having to relive the memory of the bookshop being burnt to the ground every time he closed his eyes was starting to become inconvenient. Not in the least because demons aren’t even supposed to dream, never mind have nightmares.However, Crowley thinks he might have found the solution in the form of Aziraphale himself. He definitely sleeps better using the angel as a pillow in any case, and Aziraphale is all too willing to help. It makes sense after all. A human ailment requires a human touch.Demons also aren’t supposed to fall in love, but that had been written off as a lost cause a long time ago.[Rating may be subject to change]





	Something Human

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the TV show, but as a longtime fan of the book, this story will contain a lot of book elements/references, and of course, footnotes. Title taken from the Muse song of the same name which gave me a lot of A/C feelings.
> 
> Credit to [Doynik](https://doynik.tumblr.com/) for being my beta.

Like most unearthly beings such as himself, Crowley didn't need to sleep, and indeed, hadn't always enjoyed it.[1] He liked to think that he now had sleep down to an art form, as well as a much deeper understanding of its versatility that most beings—angels, demons and humans alike—couldn’t even begin to fathom.

The idea of using sleep to avoid one's problems had been one of Crowley’s earliest inventions. He was exceedingly proud of it and had gone to great lengths to explain to Hell the varied and quite often disastrous consequences it had on Earth. Such consequences included one of his other highly commended inventions: accidentally sleeping in. It hadn’t taken Hell very long to commend him for that after the countless missed doctors appointments, and multiple cases of very important rendezvous between political figures having to be adjourned.

Complete catastrophe in other words.

Crowley was a great advocate of using sleep to avoid one’s problems and used it quite extensively himself. The majority of his long sleep during the 19th century was purely to avoid Aziraphale after their “little tiff in 1862”, as Aziraphale called it [2], much to Crowley’s chagrin. It also had the added bonus of being an excuse he could use when things went pear-shaped. Aziraphale could hardly accuse Crowley of demonic influence—no more than Hell could infer that he had done something right _—_ if Crowley had been asleep at the time. Whether it was _true_ or not was irrelevant at this point. His reputation as the demon who liked to nap from time to time was well enough established that he didn’t need to do much convincing for either party to believe him.

Occasionally—very, _very_ occasionally—Crowley actually slept when he felt something akin to what humans call tiredness.

Attempting to prevent the apocalypse was one such occasion.

Angels are very much like perpetual motion machines in that they are able to do work indefinitely without an energy source. [3] And being of similar stock, demons are much the same. This is why demons shouldn’t get tired. But right now, Crowley did feel tired. In any case, he was sure that what he felt was as close as he could get to human tiredness, without literally being human himself. This wasn’t a mere indulgence or an avoidance tactic, but something he felt he actually needed.

Which is why, three days after the aversion of the apocalypse, Crowley was wondering why he was suddenly having so much trouble with it. He was practically a sleep connoisseur! It shouldn’t be this difficult.

In truth, he hadn’t slept properly since the day he and Aziraphale officially lost the Antichrist. Those had been unprecedented circumstances however. Restlessness during the end of the world as we know it is to be expected. Unexpected was having it persist after all was said and done. Apocalypse: postponed indefinitely; Heaven and Hell: both suitably placated. Nothing should be standing in his way of a well deserved slumber.

And then there was the small matter of the nightmares.

Of course, it wasn’t a small matter at all, but a rather large one. Crowley just wasn’t ready to admit that yet.

Evil does not sleep. And even if it did, it most certainly wouldn’t have nightmares.

If there was anything positive Crowley could say about this situation, it was that at least the nightmares were consistent. Inferno. Shattering glass, the roaring of flames tearing through paper, the heaving groans of collapsing timbre, Crowley’s own voice echoing in his ears as he screamed out Aziraphale’s name in desperation...

A human psychologist would probably diagnose him with some sort of post-traumatic stress, Crowley mused, but that would be ridiculous. Demons weren’t supposed to experience things like post-traumatic stress. Then again, Crowley could probably write a book on the things he, as a demon, was not supposed to have done or experienced. A very comprehensive book with a lot of verbose footnotes—the kind that Aziraphale would probably want to squirrel away from the prying eyes of any potential customers in his shop, and instead pore over himself every night until he could be sure that he had absorbed every irresistible detail—

Crowley found himself seriously considering the idea of becoming a published author.

Shaking his head free of that idle train thought, Crowley looked down from his vantage point, which was currently the ceiling in his office. Sometimes sleeping in a different location helped him nod off more easily. His bedroom ceiling hadn’t worked, so the one in his office had been his latest failed effort. At least from this angle, he could stare morosely at the telephone on his desk and count down the miserable seconds until he inevitably gave in and called Aziraphale. It had become routine now. Crowley had already been calling the angel routinely for the past thirty odd years, but calling Aziraphale at this time of night had only become a habit within the past week.

It made sense of course, that Crowley would want to call his best friend. Aziraphale didn’t sleep and he was always keen to chat for a bit… a few hours… until dawn… until whatever time Crowley needed really.

Not that Crowley needed.

And sometimes Aziraphale would invite him over to his bookshop. Sometimes. Most of the time. Almost every time.

There had been a lot of times.

The one thing Crowley was certain about, was that he himself had never asked outright if he could come over. Only heavily implied that he wanted to. Temptation was what he did after all. It was all just another wily way of bothering the angel. Consuming large quantities of Aziraphale’s wine must surely be causing the angel a substantial amount of bother. His stock was perpetually low these days.

Although.

Crowley had sort of started getting into the habit of bringing his own bottle. It was usually a bottle he thought Aziraphale would enjoy. Chosen specifically, one could argue, so that Aziraphale would join him. And he did. He would give Crowley a warm smile, jovially uncork the bottle and have a glass poured for each of them before Crowley had even sat down.

Then they would talk a lot.

They never talked about what was actually ailing Crowley, because this was only a way to kill time after all. Killing time bothering the angel, by distracting him from his reading with inane conversations, until Crowley worked out how to sleep again. Except, Aziraphale was never actually bothered at all, and maybe Crowley appreciated a little bit how Aziraphale’s presence seemed to ease the residual anxiety left over from the nightmares. It was better too, being able to talk in person. You can’t touch someone over the phone. Sitting in Aziraphale’s bookshop meant that Crowley could casually lay a hand on the angel’s shoulder, or grab his arm enthusiastically when telling a joke. Sometimes, when enough alcohol had been consumed by the pair of them, Crowley let himself lean fully against Aziraphale on the sofa. That way he could feel him almost entirely—soft, warm and solid—and smell his familiar scent.

It was a primal thing, Crowley reasoned. His demon brain was experiencing a human-like stress that needed a human-like touch to correct. What he needed—what his brain needed—was the assurance that Aziraphale was there and safe after the nightmare-memory of the night Crowley thought he’d lost him for good. Maybe Aziraphale wasn’t performing the traditional kind of miracle when he smiled at Crowley, returned his touches or let loose a giddy laugh at something Crowley said, but it had the same, warm, dizzying effect of Aziraphale’s magic that Crowley had become so attuned to.

It was a very nice feeling.

While Crowley himself wasn’t nice, it didn’t mean that he could not enjoy the feeling of niceness enveloping him every now and then. Aziraphale’s particular brand of niceness was especially addictive.

Yes. Niceness. That was what he needed. Nice distracting niceness.

Crowley looked down at the phone again.

It would also probably help to actually talk to Aziraphale about what he had been experiencing, he conceded grudgingly.

He looked out the window. The sun was starting to creep slowly over the horizon.

He didn’t have to call now. He could busy himself today with some minor temptations and sidle into the bookshop later on at a more reasonable drinking hour.

Crowley thought again of the cosy bookshop with its equally cosy angel counterpart. His fingers twitched downwards towards his phone and he snatched them back.

The sun crept further.

Breakfast, Crowley decided. They could do breakfast. Breakfast wine. That was definitely a thing. He could wait a bit and then call Aziraphale to let him know he was coming round for a normal breakfast at a normal time. He could wait a couple more hours.

He lasted two minutes.

 

* * *

 

Aziraphale was pleased to see Crowley outside his bookshop. He was less pleased to see the bottle of wine Crowley was dangling in front of his face in what he probably thought was an enticing manner.

“Really now,” Aziraphale said. “It’s quarter to six in the morning!”

“Barely.”

“The sun is up!”

_“Barely!”_

“I’m making us a pot of tea. Come inside… and give me _that_.”

Aziraphale promptly snatched the swaying bottle out of Crowley’s grasp and the demon stepped over the threshold with a resigned sigh. He knew better than to argue.

“Oh stop it,” Aziraphale said, but not unkindly. “You know I don’t like us drinking this early in the day.” He had the kind of affection in his voice where he sounded like he was trying very hard, but also not very hard at all, to keep it from seeping in.

“Alright,” Crowley said with a small smile. He watched as Aziraphale’s mouth twitched in response before he averted his eyes and pottered about the room, searching for cups and saucers.

Crowley sank down heavily into the well worn sofa that was tucked between the bookcases. As he sank, he felt his resolve begin to drain away just as readily. He was going to have to tell Aziraphale _now_ about the ridiculous nightmares or else he never would. And he’d be blessed if he was going to suffer through them for all eternity [4] unless he could drag Aziraphale down to suffer with him.

So he dragged him.

“Would you stop faffing about and _bloody sit down_ already, angel,” Crowley said as he tugged on Aziraphale’s sleeve and pulled him bodily onto the sofa.

It was a small miracle, or perhaps a real one, that Aziraphale didn’t spill more tea than he did. Crowley had to give him credit for not reacting more beyond a short huff as he landed on the cushions. Aziraphale threw him a sharp look as he miracled away the small puddle of Earl Grey on the floor.

“That nearly landed on my special copy of _Salome_ ,” Aziraphale said tersely, picking up said book and tucking it further back underneath the sofa.[5] Crowley followed the action with raised eyebrows.

“Well maybe don’t put your _special copy_ on the floor then,” Crowley said with a touch of amusement. Aziraphale emerged from under the sofa, looking less miffed, but more dusty. Crowley brushed a cobweb off the angel’s face. “You could try putting it on, oh I don’t know, a bookshelf?”

“But then a customer might see it.”

Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale sat back down on the sofa, an inch further away from Crowley than he had been before. Crowley took a sip of tea to mask his discontent. Then, mind made up, the demon forcibly put down his teacup. It hit the saucer with a harsh clatter.

Ignoring Aziraphale’s responding wince, Crowley decided to skip any form of preamble, which was a shame, because he liked preambling as much as Aziraphale liked to be preambled to.

“I can’t sleep,” Crowley said, again opting to ignore the noises Aziraphale was making next to him. This time it was a spluttering cough resulting from the angel’s tea going down the wrong way. He had been, quite rightly, expecting the usual preamble and was thus taken by surprise.

“I see all these... visions and things,” Crowley continued. The rest of his words then stuck in his throat as he tried and failed to put his nightmare into words without actually describing it, and betraying too much emotion in the process. It turned out, that trying to describe something _without_ describing it, wasn’t really possible. Crowley took a dejected sip of tea instead.

“So… you see things?” Aziraphale prompted, coughing fit mercifully abated. “When you’re asleep? You conjure images up in your mind?”

“Yes, but not on purpose.”

“I see.”

The change in Crowley’s usual tack had Aziraphale listening intently. He was always a good listener, but when you’ve known someone for over six thousand years, it’s easy to tell when that someone requires a little more than just an ear. Aziraphale would give Crowley an infinite amount of ears if he could, but alas, he would just have to make do with the standard two.[6]

“Fire,” Crowley eventually croaked out after a moment's pause. His eyes flitted around the bookshop despite his best efforts, and he gestured vaguely around himself and Aziraphale in a defeated sort of way. “Memories from _that day._ You know?”

Aziraphale did. He put down his cup and clasped his hands together on his knees, considering.

“I’m fairly certain,” he said with the air of one that had it all figured out, “that what you’re experiencing is some form of nightmare.”

Crowley sighed and sank, if possible, even further into the sofa. Aziraphale looked on, feeling deflated.

“I know what a nightmare is, angel,” Crowley said, pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering if Aziraphale would notice if he miracled the tea in his cup into some _sodding wine._ “My lot invented them.”

“Actually, I think that was one belongs to the Almighty.”

“Ah. Yes. You might be right there.”

“Hell gets full credit for daydreaming however.”

“Hm.”

Crowley thought back to all the daydreams his brain had supplied him with over the course of the past few thousand years, and could not disagree. Daydreams were perfectly diabolical.[7]

Aziraphale took a sip of tea. Crowley also took a sip of tea. His now tasted remarkably like wine. Funny that.

“You know this makes you quite extraordinary, don’t you?” Aziraphale piped up. “Unique, even.”

Crowley glanced at him. Aziraphale had that look in his eyes that betrayed his fascination despite the casual tone in his voice. It was hard not to preen as though he had just been dealt a compliment. Crowley rather enjoyed being the focus of Aziraphale’s fascination.

“How so?” Crowley said, composure intact but allowing himself to straighten up a bit in his seat.

“Dreaming of any kind requires some semblance of imagination,” said Aziraphale. “You are able to conjure up these nightmares as you sleep. That’s exactly two things that a demon should never be able to do, and yet you can do both. Simultaneously. Very unique indeed.”

Aziraphale had a small smile on his face. This time, Crowley knew for sure that the angel’s admiration was sincere, and that it was also his way of cheering Crowley up.

It was working.

Crowley smiled back at him, and then let his composure slip further still as he leant forward—just a little—towards Aziraphale. Their shoulders were now brushing slightly. A solid warmth. He felt innumerably better. Aziraphale reached out and gave Crowley’s forearm a consoling pat, letting go with a gentle squeeze.

“I’m sure it will pass,” he said with utmost confidence—the kind only an angel like Aziraphale could have in the face of something that, really, he knew absolutely nothing about.

“Hm?” Crowley’s mind was too busy replaying the intimate gesture in his head to take full advantage of the angel’s optimism.

“I’m sure it will pass,” Aziraphale repeated, though with significantly less confidence. Not that it mattered, because Crowley still hadn’t really heard him, and it was at the point now where it would be too awkward to ask Aziraphale to repeat himself a second time.

Crowley shrugged noncommittally instead.

“The point is,” he said, forcing his mind to take a sharp u-turn back to the topic at hand, and away from any thoughts of lingering body heat. “How do I stop it? It’s all very well knowing what it is, but it means nothing if I don’t know how to make it go away. I miss sleeping, Aziraphale.”

The angel sniffed in a way that sounded very much like a dismissive _‘I can’t imagine why, my dear. It seems like a marvellous waste of time,’_ and Crowley frowned.

“Imagine, angel— _please_ —just _imagine_ if one day, you couldn’t enjoy eating all your favourite foods any more.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in alarm.

“What can I do to help?” he said, all traces of dismissiveness gone.

“Right now?” Crowley said.

“Yes.”

“ _Right now?_ ”

“Anything.”

Crowley leant forward—dangerously so into Aziraphale’s personal space—and spoke in a low voice just as dangerous.

“Right now I would like some of that _damn wine._ ”

Aziraphale blinked at him and looked down pointedly at Crowley’s wine-stained teacup. Crowley pursed his lips.

“That didn’t count,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Profound realisations _can_ actually arise when you are drunk. All your brain needs to do, is to be able to think and make new connections. Sometimes a bit of alcohol can help steer the mind into new doorways that would have otherwise been off limits to a sober one.

This time was not one of those times. But like a lot of drunk people, Crowley was under the impression that it was.

“I have come to a realisation,” he said loudly so that Aziraphale could hear him. Aziraphale wasn’t actually far away, but he had got up to sit at his desk and write a new notice for the front door of the bookshop.[8]

It was almost eight thirty in the morning. That meant that very soon, Aziraphale would start being accosted by a select few persistent humans who, for some reason, wanted to buy books from him.

Aziraphale attached the new notice to the window and flipped the ‘closed’ sign. He was considering getting rid of it entirely, or perhaps getting one that read ‘closed’ on both sides. Then he hastily made his way back over to the sofa and sat down before Crowley could decide to repeat himself at an even more unnecessary volume.

“What have you realised?” said Aziraphale, just as Crowley had started to open his mouth again.

“Every time we get drunk— _every time—_ I am… nearly always, more drunk than you.”

He paused for effect. Aziraphale stared at him. Crowley continued.

“It can’t be a coincidence,” he said.

“It’s not,” Aziraphale agreed.

“So I’ve come to the conclusion, that this… miracled wine—” He waved the appropriated teacup in Aziraphale’s face. The contents sloshed around alarmingly, “—is, _therefore,_ much more…”

Crowley tried to think of a word but couldn’t.

“Stronger,” he settled for. Crowley mouthed the words ‘more stronger’ under his breath a few times and then sat back, satisfied.

Aziraphale tried to give him a look, but Crowley’s sunglasses only gave the illusion that he was meeting his gaze. They were actually focused at a point somewhere over the angel’s left shoulder.

“You are drunker than me because you drank more,” Aziraphale said simply. Crowley waved his hand in dismissal.

“You did!” Aziraphale countered, miracling away the wine before Crowley could take another sip—teacup and all. It was permanently stained red now anyway. “I had half a glass to humour you. I thought we could save the rest of the bottle for later.” He looked around for said bottle. “What happened to it? And you _do_ know I have more wine in the back? You don’t need to miracle it up.”

“It ran out and I didn’t want to move,” said Crowley, looking crestfallen. Aziraphale softened a bit. Crowley sighed and rubbed his face with his hands.

“I didn’t want to be _this_ drunk,” he said, voice muffled in his palms.

“Then sober up.”

“I still want to be a _little_ drunk though.”

“Then sober up a _little._ ”

“How about I just—”

Crowley dropped his head onto Aziraphale’s shoulder. Crowley hadn’t done this before and wondered blearily to himself why not, because it felt more right than any of the drunken decisions he’d made so far. Had Aziraphale known what Crowley was thinking, he would have agreed with him—that is—if the angel hadn’t already been busy feeling overwhelmingly touched at the intimate gesture. They enjoyed each others warmth for a moment.

“You know what?” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I think I can sleep now.”

Aziraphale assumed that meant Crowley really had come to a profound realisation this time, thus solving his nightmare problem. The angel opened his mouth to say something along the lines of, _‘Wonderful! Sober up then and drive home so you can have a well deserved rest now that you’ve sorted out that whole unpleasant business. Maybe later we can have a celebratory dinner and drinks. This time we’ll actually share the bottle.’_ But as he turned to face the demon on his shoulder, he saw that Crowley’s sunglasses had slid down, enough to reveal that his eyes were closed.

“O-Oh!” he stuttered out instead. “You’re doing that _now_ are you? Right. Okay. I suppose I’ll just… wait here then.”

At least he had _Salome_ under the sofa to keep him company.

 

* * *

 

**_A FEW THOUSAND YEARS AGO_ **

**_3005 BC - ON A VERY WET EARTH_ **

 

It had been roughly two hundred and sixty-seven days since God had sent the rain and drowned a significant portion of all living things, but who’s counting? Well. Noah probably. Crawly certainly hadn’t been. What he had been doing, was watching the whole thing go down with abject horror, until he was forced to retreat to a continent that hadn’t pissed off the Almighty. Yet. At least China had been interesting.

The flood waters had started to recede now. Small pockets of land were emerging from the ocean-sized lake, and Crawly was currently gliding over the new, desolate landscape. God had sent a great wind to push back the water, and Crawly was making the most of it. He didn’t often get a chance to spread his wings and he had missed the feeling of cool air ruffling his feathers. The force of the wind was enough to propel him—always a plus, the less effort Crawly had to put into things the better—but he had just homed in on a familiar scent somewhere ahead of him, carried by the wind, and he was eager to catch up to its source.

He started to steer in its general direction.

As Crawly got closer, he then sensed the presence itself—or rather— _him_ self. Not long after, the sight of white wings came into view. Crawly grinned.

“Oi! Angel!” he yelled into the wind. His yell somehow managed to make it through the roaring current and Crawly saw the angel lurch a bit too far to one side. Aziraphale turned around in mid air, hovering as he gave Crawly an indignant look, before descending down towards a small area of dry land. Crawly followed him.

“That was dangerous!” Aziraphale said as the demon landed next to him. “I could have fallen!”

“It’s not that bad once you get used to it.”

Aziraphale looked appalled.

“Okay, okay. Bad joke. Got it. Sorry, angel.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“Sorry… Aziraphale.”

Mollified, Aziraphale gave him a tight smile. He shook out his wings and pulled them closer towards himself. He never quite knew what to say to Crawly when they bumped into each other like this. He usually waited until the demon spoke first. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Where are you off to then?” said Crawly. “Can’t imagine there’s a lot for you to do around here until all the water’s gone.”

“There isn’t,” Aziraphale said sheepishly.

“Then why are you—?”

“If you must know,” Aziraphale interrupted, “I’m heading for higher ground.”

“Higher—? In that case, why not just go back upstairs. So to speak. Surely you can’t get much higher than that?”  

“To tell you the truth I… I wanted a good view.”

“Of what?”

“This rainbow that’s supposed to be happening. It won’t look the same from _upstairs_ , as you put it. I’m told it’s going to be quite something.”

Crawly made a small hmm-ing noise in his throat as he considered Aziraphale’s words. The angel shuffled awkwardly next to him as he waited for judgement.

“You know what?” Crawly said after a while. “I’ll join you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale hadn’t been expecting that at all. “Really?”

“Problem?”

Crawly’s yellow eyes were odd, but Aziraphale found himself feeling intrigued as opposed to disturbed as he met the demon’s gaze. They betrayed nothing but sincerity—nothing akin to slyness lay within them at all.

“I… I guess not.”

“Brilliant!” Crawly said, his grin also brilliant. It was quite startling. “Let’s go then.”

They took off and flew together in a surprisingly comfortable silence. After a short while, they came across a mound that rose higher than the rest. The vegetation was still gleaming with leftover rainwater, and as the breeze lifted the leaves on the trees, the droplets cascaded down in fresh showers. They landed softly on the new, fertile soil and gazed out over the lake towards the horizon. The water shimmered innocently back at them, which Crawly thought was rather distasteful of it, considering the circumstances. He turned away and sat down against the trunk of the largest tree.

“So when’s it supposed to start?” Crawly said as Aziraphale took a seat beside him.

“About thirty minutes give or take.”

Crawly took two of the aforementioned minutes to properly survey the angel. Aziraphale’s wings were drenched, which didn’t come as a surprise, but they were also clumped together in patches with dust and dirt. His robes were a little frayed and looking closer to off-white rather than his usual white. Interesting.

“How long have you been down here, angel?” Crawly said with a frown, and Aziraphale gave a start next to him.

“How long have I—? What do you mean?”

“I _mean,_ you’re not looking your best.” Crawly leant forward and plucked the fraying edge of Aziraphale’s collar as he spoke. “You’ve been here since that day we saw the ark too, haven't you?”

“...too?”

Crawly’s hand froze in its grip on Aziraphale’s robes. He let go with a clenched jaw.

“Well done. You’ve caught me,” he said, voice stiff. There was a pregnant pause.

“So,” Aziraphale said at last. “I suppose I ought to be asking you the same thing, Crawly.” He turned towards the demon with barely restrained curiosity. “What on Earth have _you_ been doing on—um—on Earth?”

Crawly winced, lip curling at the sound of his name coming out of Aziraphale's mouth. He wanted to correct the angel, but Crawly hadn’t come up with a new name to correct him with yet. Instead, he moved on to the second most uncomfortable part of the question posed to him.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said with a hiss that made the hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck stand on end. “Not upstairs—Hell forbid anyone downstairs—not anyone. It could destroy me. Got it?”

Aziraphale nodded timidly and Crawly relaxed a little, slumping back against the tree trunk with a deep sigh.

“I might’ve tried to— _save_ one or two—or three… hundred. Living things. Tempt them away to greener, less sodden, pastures before the flood hit. But it was all done in a very cunning, demon-y way with plenty of guile and wickedness I can assure you.”

Crawly forced himself to look back at his companion. Aziraphale was beaming at him. Crawly was revolted.

“Oh for Satan’s sake _stop that_ or I’ll have to use this very convenient body of water to drown myself in.”

Aziraphale reigned in his smile a bit.

“Don’t joke about things like that,” he said with an attempt at a serious tone, before smiling brightly again. “And me too by the way.”

“What?”

“The saving part. Not the drowning part.”

Crawly raised his eyebrows and sat up straighter.

“Really?” he said, lips beginning to quirk into a smile despite himself.

Aziraphale nodded, eyes darting towards Crawly in a positively mischievous manner that was most unbecoming of an angel. Gabriel would certainly not approve, and the thought made Aziraphale even more giddy.

“I thought that a handful of minor miracles couldn’t hurt,” he said.“And I didn’t have anything else on. Though the weather was, to say the least, quite dire.”

“So I see,” Crawly said, his eyes raking over Aziraphale. The angel’s wings trembled every so often as the breeze caught them. Droplets fell from the tree above and clung to the unkempt, white feathers. “Let me help. Stay still.”

Aziraphale sat bolt upright at the abrupt sensation of Crawly’s careful, steady fingertips combing through the primary feathers of his left wing, all the way from their downy base to their damp tips, extracting any trace of dirt or dust with a practised ease. Aziraphale shivered violently and pulled away, retracting his wings as tightly as he could around himself without suffocating.

“C-Crawly!” he managed to sputter out, red-faced. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Crawly stared at him in utmost bewilderment, his hands still hanging in mid-air.

“Helping you groom your feathers you daft git,” he said. “What else? And what’s with _that_ overreaction?”

“Overreac— _Crawly!”_ Aziraphale was beside himself. “You don’t just go around grooming other peoples’ feathers—”

“Yes I do!”

 “—it’s just not—wait, really?”

“It’s common courtesy! Don’t they teach you anything up there?!”

Crawly was as much angered as Aziraphale was mortified. And just a tiny bit hurt. He had never got anything close to this kind of reaction before from any demon whose wings he’d groomed. Most demons, if asked, would name Crawly almost every time as the demon to go to if you wanted the best wing grooming experience. They even booked appointments.

Aziraphale on the other hand, had never known such a practice.

Angel wings of course were expected to be groomed on occasion. Never unclean, but also never overly groomed. A bit of ruffle was the sign of an angel who was focused on the job at hand and not idling about languidly stroking their own feathers. Grooming _another_ angel’s wings was out of the question.

It was slowly dawning on both parties, in the last few minutes before God’s apology rainbow appeared, that they were each missing some vital information about the other.

“Do you not—it’s not a thing up there then?” Crawly said. His disbelief was palpable.

Aziraphale shook his head and then it was Crawly’s turn to feel mortified. They sat in mutual mortification for an excruciating amount of seconds, until Aziraphale couldn’t take it any more.

“Common courtesy you say?” he said meekly and relaxed his wings a fraction. He tried to catch Crawly’s eye, but the demon was busying himself with his own wings now, very pointedly not looking at Aziraphale. He was staring down so heatedly at his own feathers, that Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised if they started to smoulder. Maybe it was a good thing after all that they were surrounded by water. Aziraphale had never known a demon with the power to set things ablaze with their eyes alone, but if this situation was anything to go by, there was very little he _did_ know about demons at all.

The resolute silence from Crawly had gone on so long now, that Aziraphale was convinced for a moment that the demon wasn’t ever going to speak to him again. He was surprised at the level of disappointment he felt at that.

“That’s right,” said Crawly finally, and Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s just seen as polite you know? Y’see a fellow demon with wings that need grooming? Offer to help out. Then they return the favour sometimes. It’s just rude not to.” [9]

“...oh.”

“It’s not even particularly friendly. I groom bloody Hastur’s wings all the time for Satan’s sake, and I’m pretty sure he despises my entire existence.” His eyes flickered to Aziraphale. “Not that it _can’t_ be friendly.”

Aziraphale tried not to feel too pleased at that. Friends was not something he and the demon were—that much he was certain—but there was something about the thought of Crawly disliking him that didn’t sit right at all with Aziraphale.

“Well,” the angel said firmly. “I’m sorry, Crawly. Genuinely.”

“You couldn’t be disingenuous to save your life,” Crawly said. “And me too.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, and Crawly had meant to smile back, but it faltered halfway across his face as he caught sight of something spontaneously appearing on the horizon.

“What in the name of all sin is that?” he said, face scrunched up in disgust.

Aziraphale turned to look.

“Oh! That must be it!”

“It’s hideous!”

“Oh come now, Crawly—”

“I can’t believe we waited all this time for _that!”_

“Well I think it’s lovely.”

“You would.”

“And look how many colours it has!”

“It’s garish is what it is.”

They looked at each other and neither could help the grins that broke across their faces.

Then the moment was ruined somewhat by a dove colliding with the back of Crawly’s head.

“Ow!” he said.

Aziraphale pretended not to hear Crawly’s protests as the bird continued to flap around his face. The angel plucked an olive branch from the tree behind Crawly’s head and passed it to him.

“I think this is what she’s after,” he said.

“How do you—? You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to know.” Crawly thrust the branch towards the dove, muttering, “See if I save any more of your kind next time there’s a catastrophic, world ending event.”

The dove took off to the skies again.

They sat quietly and watched it go until it disappeared over the horizon. The wind was picking up once more, causing more raindrops to shower down on them from the trees. Crawly sniffed disdainfully and began combing the droplets out of his feathers again.

Aziraphale watched him for a moment, before hesitantly reaching out a wing and holding it above the demon. Crawly stopped grooming and looked at him.

“Common courtesy,” the angel said quietly, staring ahead at the rainbow that still glowed in the distance, a thoughtful expression on his face. Crawly turned to gaze at it as well.

“If it’s any consolation,” Aziraphale continued. “It didn’t feel… _bad_. Who knows? Maybe one day we can… give it another try? New experiences and all that.”

At that moment, Crawly didn’t know what was more baffling to him: the multicoloured spectacle across the sky, or the angel beside him.

“Right,” Crawly said, for lack of anything better to say. He squinted.

“Angel,” he said, looking horrified. “I think I have a problem.”

“What?”

“The apology rainbow is growing on me.”

 

* * *

 

**_PRESENT DAY_ **

**_2:15 PM - ON A SLIGHTLY LESS WET EARTH._ **

**_ONLY SLIGHTLY. IT IS ENGLAND AFTER ALL._ **

 

Angels have better memories than demons. This is a fact even in the case of Aziraphale and Crowley, who are the usual suspects when it comes to exceptions to the rule. It wasn’t that Crowley’s memory was bad, but that Aziraphale could recall the events of 3005 BC with astonishing accuracy, right down to the number of leaves on the olive branch that day. Crowley on the other hand, only had a fuzzy recollection of it, and it consisted mostly of rainbows and an overly aggressive bird. The failed wing grooming attempt he had repressed out of sheer embarrassment.

Which is why, when Crowley woke up suddenly being able to recall the whole thing in excruciating detail, he was a damn sight more than taken aback. Aziraphale’s voice, in disturbing proximity to Crowley’s ear, then went and made the disorienting situation even worse.

“Oh good you’re awake,” Aziraphale said. Crowley turned to look at him, his brow furrowed.

“Please tell me you didn’t watch me sleep the whole time,” Crowley blurted out, because the other option was actually addressing the fact that he had curled up and fallen asleep next to the angel, and that both his body and mind were still unwilling to move away from the warmth. Crowley ignored them both and made a concentrated effort into sitting up and putting a good foot of space between himself and Aziraphale on the sofa.

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said. “I also read _Salome_ twice.”

Crowley gave him a pointed look. Aziraphale blushed. The vindictive part of Crowley—that was small but still just about existed—was sated from the fact that he was not the only one being made to feel uncomfortable by this incident.

“Isn’t that the one about the baptist getting his head chopped off?” Crowley said, knowing full well he was stalling.

“Um, yes.”

“One minute you’re baptising the Son of God, and the next…”

Crowley trailed off, grimacing. He might not have the best memory, but a beheading is hard to scrub your brain clean from. Crowley’s mind meandered back to his dream, which he realised now, had actually been a very vivid memory. A much nicer one with a lot less beheading. This thought didn’t ease him much however. If his sleeping brain was going to make a habit of showing him detailed visions of all the wretched things he witnessed in his life, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

But he had managed to sleep. Peacefully. For the first time in days. It seemed to Crowley, that the solution to his problem, was to be as close to Aziraphale as he could. Possibly touching. Crowley didn’t need to consider this idea long before deciding that it appealed to him quite a lot.

Just as Crowley began to wonder how to go about articulating all this to Aziraphale, and perhaps discuss new sleeping arrangements, the angel broached the topic first.

“So!” Aziraphale said brightly. “No more nightmares I take it?”

Crowley folded his arms and leant back into the sofa. He closed his eyes and recalled again how it had felt soaring above the Earth with Aziraphale that day all those years ago.

“Sort of,” Crowley said, but didn’t elaborate. Any words he’d wanted to say a few moments ago had been abruptly whisked away from him.

Aziraphale looked at him thoughtfully and came to an understanding. A partial one at least. He put down his book and shuffled a bit closer towards Crowley on the sofa.

“I’ve come to rather enjoy having you around you know, Crowley?” he said quietly. “In case that somehow wasn’t clear.” He reached out hesitantly and put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “One might even go as far as to call us friends,” he said with an impish smile, hoping to coax one from the demon himself. Crowley’s mouth twitched and Aziraphale considered that a success. He gave Crowley’s shoulder a small squeeze. “What I’m trying to say is… if staying here helps you sleep, I can assure you that you’re more than welcome, my dear.”

As Aziraphale had been talking, Crowley had been fighting the urge to tease him about what a sentimental, old git he was being. But then he felt the warm weight of Aziraphale’s hand, and found his heart wasn’t really in it any more.

There was a comfortable silence. Then Crowley lifted his hand and placed it gently on top of Aziraphale’s, holding it in place on his shoulder.

“It helps,” Crowley said. “This helps.”

 

* * *

1 The whole thing had started out as a joke that very quickly became a heated debate, later a bet, (which Hastur lost quite spectacularly and is something he still holds against Crowley to this day many thousands of years later, amongst many other less frivolous things) but it ultimately came down to, as it often did, Crowley’s contrary nature. As most of us can attest to, being told that you _needn’t, can’t, shouldn’t, won’t_ do something, more often than not has the exact opposite effect on the person being told as such. This effect is magnified tenfold in Crowley with him not only being a demon, but a contrary one at that. The lesson learnt here is that telling a contrary demon that “You don’t need to sleep and therefore it would be impossible for you to do such a _horrendously_ human pastime for anything longer than a few minutes without becoming _horrendously_ bored out of your mind,” and then “A bet you say?” and quite a few centuries later “ _How_ many years? And you _enjoyed_ it?!” will definitely leave you out of pocket. Crowley likes to credit Heaven for this entire series of events, as it was Heaven after all that came up with the idea of “n’t” words in the first place. [Back to text]

2 … and then gave an awkward cough before never mentioning it again for another half a century. [Back to text]

3 Despite Aziraphale’s insistence that he’d had nothing to do with Villard de Honnecourt’s _Perpetuum Mobile_ design in the 13th century, and had merely lent a hand in assembling the artist’s haphazard drawings into something resembling a sketchbook—of which he held onto and looked after diligently until reluctantly letting it be “discovered” in the mid-19th century—and Crowley’s murky recollection of a drunken debate he’d had with Leonardo da Vinci in the 16th, neither have ever claimed responsibility for putting the idea of perpetual motion into the human mind. Aziraphale claims that it is “inherently evil” to suggest that such a thing is possible, whereas Crowley argues that the fantastical idea has inspired enough worthwhile science and thought experiments to be considered divine intervention. One such thought experiment of the name _Maxwell’s demon_  is one Crowley takes full credit for inspiring. [Back to text]

4 The figurative one. The literal one is even less fun.[Back to text]

5 Unlike the majority of his Oscar Wilde collection, this copy of _Salome_ was not a first edition (published instead in 1950) but Aziraphale had grown rather fond of it. The delightful Aubrey Beardsley illustrations already gave it a unique charm, but what really made this book special to Aziraphale, was the message written in pencil on the front page. It read: _“Dear B. I called on you tonight and waited half an hour reading this. Thank you. Come and see me sometime. This will be easy to erase - Gillian.”_ The message, it goes without saying, was left unerased, most likely due to sentimental reasons. Aziraphale found this both mildly amusing and rather lovely. [Back to text]

6 Aziraphale’s true angelic form unfortunately did _not_ have an infinite number of ears. Some lucky angels were gifted with multiple faces or hundreds of eyes, but all Aziraphale ever got was a crown and a sceptre. He had been rather disappointed. [Back to text]

7 A lot of Crowley’s daydreams featured Aziraphale. Preposterous things. Things Crowley would never think up by himself of course. Things like wondering what it would be like to be to groom Aziraphale’s wings. Or have Aziraphale groom _his_. Like he said: perfectly diabolical. [Back to text]

8 It read: _Closed due to a large snake invasion. Come back next Tuesday. Or never._ [Back to text]

9 Wing grooming for demons, is like a cup of tea. It’s the first thing you offer someone when they come through your front door, and it should be done regardless of the person being your grandma or a mildly irritating neighbour. It is not weather dependent, but it is especially appreciated on cold, wet days. You offer one to both a friend who is down, and a friend who has received some wonderful news. Offering one to your worst enemy is a powerful gesture, as it can be interpreted as either a temporary truce, or an act of passive aggression depending how the tea is made. Hastur and Crowley have engaged in a lot of passive aggressive wing grooming. [Back to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always highly appreciated! Feel free to chat about A/C with me on my social media that I forget to use a lot:
> 
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